


you give me fever, when you kiss me

by theviolonist



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But her face must be showing all she doesn't say, because in a flash Franky is up on her feet and not ten seconds after that Erica's back hits the door. Franky is holding her wrists, lightly enough that Erica could get away if she wanted to. Erica would almost prefer an iron grip so she could claim plausible deniability later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you give me fever, when you kiss me

The alarm blinks red and, only a fraction of second later, screams. 

Erica pokes her head outside her office. She's alarmed - everyone is. She has to look calm, though, because that's what's expected of her - and besides, fear won't help. She can control the situation; she has to. Vera's eyes are terrified, but there's hardness in them Erica isn't sure she completely understands. "You should stay inside, ma'am."

"What happened?"

"It's Franky Doyle."

Funny, how that sentence - _it's Franky Doyle_ \- determines the highs and lows of Erica's life, sends her heart racing and resonates all the way down her stomach and then between her thighs. Erica doesn't squirm. "What did she do?"

Vera shakes her head, her mouth twists, as though disappointed. "It's not her. Some of the women decided to turn against her, now that Bea's -" She lets her sentence trail. Erica nods. 

"What about Bea? Where is she?"

"We can't find her, ma'am."

 _Stop calling me ma'am_ , Erica wants to snap, but she doesn't. She takes a breath; Vera is still hovering by her side, unsure of what she is going to do. Poor woman. 

"Let's go," Erica says, and she must look as determined as she intended, because Vera doesn't even try to dissuade her. 

The alarm is still screaming. There are women running everywhere, their hands clutching whatever weapons they've scraped up, razor blades, pens, hair clips. Fletch and Will are in the yard, yelling to the women that are still there to get against the wall. Chaos. Twice in not six months, Erica thinks. Even if there isn't another death, Erica is going to be in serious trouble. 

Vera rigid at her side, Erica looks. Her eyes prod, sharp, try to guess who is on what side. Franky is nowhere to be found. Erica's mind goes back to Toni's fetal form, curled around herself and bleeding; then Meg, with her eyes open and surprised, her neck slathered red. But Franky is stronger. She still has faithful followers here, Boomer would die for her, and Erica knows for a fact that Kim isn't nearly as harmless as she looks. 

Franky will be okay. Regardless, though, Erica starts walking faster. 

And then - well, then - then someone grabs Erica's arm, there is a scream, a corridor, Vera isn't here, Erica trips, a woman glares at her, her eyes sunken and black, someone runs, Erica slides again and crashes against the wall, there is blood, hers, though it is a small injury, only a small -

But you see, Erica is a lawyer. She may tough it up for Johnson and the officers, she still doesn't have half as much as much experience in the prison business as any of them, and right now she's terrified, terrified to the bone, absolutely frozen. If there is a way to get out of this Erica has forgotten about it; besides, she's bleeding. She never bleeds. Hell, she's not a clumsy person at all - it's been years since she's as much as gotten a papercut or cut a finger while cooking. (She doesn't cook. Mark cooks.)

Meg was alone in the corridors. She was walking and then someone - Jacs - stuck metal in her neck and then she was dead. Is that how Erica will die? What a fucking waste. 

She hoists herself up, wobbling on her heels. It's all vanity, she should have put on sensible shoes, should've started it a long time ago, really - but then, she likes the way the clicking of her heels advertises her presence, says so she doesn't have to, _this is not a woman to be messed with_ , and of course the way Franky's eyes trail up, shameless, from her ankles to her thighs...

Franky. Suddenly she's alert again. She brings her fingers to her temple, and they come up stained with thick, black-red blood. "Shit."

She thinks about turning around, finding one of the officers, but someone's advancing. A large, petite woman with tattoos crawling up her neck, her breasts sagging sadly in the uniform. She's holding one of the knives from the kitchen; the end is blunt but it won't matter. You can hurt people with so little, that's one thing Erica's learnt here. 

"Hello, Governor," the woman says, her smile ugly. 

"You should go back to your cell, Ethel." Her voice is clear, sharp - but she's bleeding and the alarm is still drilling in her brain. No one will come for her for at least ten minutes, which is enough time for anything to happen.

"Not so comfortable now you're down from your pedestal, eh? Piece of _trash_ ," Ethel spits. It lands in a disgusting little puddle at Erica's feet. The knife is raised. 

Erica is considering her options - what she can say, what scares a woman who has nothing to lose, nowhere to be sent away; the slot? Restriction of privileges? - when another voice, this time one she knows better, is acquainted with almost intimately, in fact, if her dreams are anything to go by, travels to her. 

"Got nothing to do but harass the poor governor, Ethel? I thought all this ruckus was about getting _me_." Franky's leaning against the wall, her arms crossed against her chest, and Erica has never been happier to see someone in her life. 

Ethel seems to hesitate. The knife makes a little arabesque in the air.

Franky laughs. "C'mon," she says, and she opens her arms, then growls, "get at me."

Ethel lunges; but she's slow, and Franky isn't, Franky stands before her for a second then shimmers in the air as she ducks and rotates on her feet to dole out a swing. Her fist connects with Ethel's jaw. Ethel falls backwards. She makes a sick sound when she crashes on the ground. 

Franky glances at Erica, quick, then springs on her feet and grabs Erica's hand. "Come here."

Erica expects to run - but. The noise is still overwhelming, and Franky's eyes are black, all-consuming. She looks at Erica for a second, her expression unreadable, and then - then she pulls Erica in and they're embracing, chest to chest, Erica's heart still pumping so strong she can feel it in her ears. Franky's hands close on her back, rub there once, twice. She might say it - "ssh, it's okay" - but maybe Erica is hallucinating. Her neck smells of sweat and _Franky_ , of soap and blood. Erica unclenches, returns the hug the barest fraction; someone screams in the vicinity, and they pull apart. Franky keeps her hold on Erica's hand.

They run for Erica couldn't tell how long. She doesn't know the prison well enough to tell exactly where they're going, even though it seems to be the west wing. The more they run, the more the noise lessens. Erica could ask Franky to get her back to her office, but she doesn't. She can't think straight. Her heartbeat has stopped being erratic and now it's just fast, strong, beating through her like a drum. 

Eventually Franky pulls them into a room. It only takes Erica a minute to realize it's the laundry room. She exhales a breath while Franky slams the door shut and sets herself against it, a measure of precaution she manages to make look nonchalant when she slides down the door and sits on the floor, her legs splayed open. 

Erica wipes her forehead. 

Franky's eyes are set on her, intense and unblinking as usual. After all this time, Erica still can't get used to it. Franky smirks. 

"You owe me one, Gov," she says, light and loaded with meaning. 

"Thank you," Erica breathes out, sincere. 

Franky tilts her head. "Yeah? What're you going to do to thank me?"

Erica sighs out her usual reprobating, "Franky." The only reason she can still do it is that it's a preprogrammed sound, something she's been doing for so long it comes naturally, even though she doesn't mean it half as much now as she used to.

But her face must be showing all she doesn't say, because in a flash Franky is up on her feet and not ten seconds after that Erica's back hits the door. Franky is holding her wrists, lightly enough that Erica could get away if she wanted to. Erica would almost prefer an iron grip so she could claim plausible deniability later. No, that's not it -

"Cosy, huh?" Franky says, as though they weren't locked - well, not technically - in a laundry room in the middle of a riot. 

She's hurt, Erica realizes, for the first time since Franky showed up at her rescue. A pang of guilt shoots through her, mixed with arousal. There's blood at the corner of her mouth, coagulated on her jaw; the knuckles on one of her fists, not the one with which she hit Ethel, are scrapped and bruised. The right course of action, Erica knows, would be to disengage herself from Franky's loose embrace and ask about her wounds, watch Franky go all coiled and defensive as she no doubt will. 

She doesn't. She's painfully aware of her chest heaving, brushing against Franky's; Franky's smirk is blinding and looks almost like happiness.

The grip on her wrists tightens - Erica can feel her bones and the skin of Franky's palm, their fingers, not quite touching. Franky takes one step closer. Her thigh inches up between Erica's, bunching up her skirt. _Say no_ , Erica thinks, a useless, cursory thought, since she's already decided she wouldn't.

"Cameras," she says instead. 

Franky lets out a delighted laugh, throwing her head back. Her tongue swipes over her teeth. _So_ this _is what you worry about?_

She leans in, her lips inches from Erica's. Who knew she was so patient? Erica is going crazy. The urge to grind down on Franky's thigh is overwhelming. "Don't worry," Franky breathes, and for a second Erica can't remember what she's talking about, can't remember why she would even be worried, "you'll figure something out."

And then - her lips crash on Erica's just as Erica surges up, her mouth already open, wanting, needing. She tastes like danger and blood, everything Erica imagined plus something infinitely more worrying, affection maybe - but it doesn't matter because Erica is desperate for it, wanton. It has to have been obvious - though she's taken every precaution to look as cool and unaffected as ever - that those last few weeks she's been having dreams that wake her up in the middle of the night, wet and covered in sweat, and she has to take a shower and masturbate there to exorcise the image of Franky's head between her thighs, her mouth and her fingers and her breasts. Franky laughs again, but this time the sound vibrates in Erica's throat - she arches forward, shameless, no one will have to see, know -

Franky's hands are still clutching her wrists. She brings them back to bracket Erica's head, and Erica digs her fingers into Franky's hair, letting out a sigh when she gets there and _pulls_. Franky pulls away for a second and grins, dazzling - _been wanting to do that for long?_

But she won't talk - she's not this kind of girl, not this kind of lover. Erica could tell from the first time, and it was confirmed that afternoon Franky leant close to talk to her about sex, about _first times_ and Erica squeezed her knees together, turned on to the point of aching, certain, for an agonizing minute, that Franky could feel, _smell_ her arousal from the other side of that table. Franky is an intense, focused lover, and she can laugh - but she'll stand there all the way through, moving her fingers inside of you as she looks at you with those eyes, those black, black eyes, barely biting her lip, watch you like you're the only thing in the world as you unravel. She'll lie on her back and watch you crawl over her with lazy eyelids, a grin quirking her lip as though she had a joke on you, something you couldn't understand if you tried - and then flip you over and lean over you, predatory, and devour you - 

"Franky," Erica keens, not meaning to. 

Franky responds almost immediately: she inches her thigh up, drops one of Erica's wrist and snakes her hand between Erica's thighs, making a quick work of pushing aside her underwear - good underwear, too, black lace, as though Erica had _known_ \- and sliding two fingers in in one fell swoop. Erica gasps. Franky looks at her, her mouth half-open - and then she starts fucking Erica in earnest, with a kind of furious, enraged seriousness that makes Erica drop her head on Franky's shoulder and just _go_ with it. 

Franky won't have it, though. 

She lets Erica's other wrist go. It falls limp against Erica's side - Erica can't even think about it, heaving, her lips open and damp, heaving little kittenish moans she would be ashamed of if she could think -; Franky's hand goes directly at Erica's throat. Even through her hair, the touch is hot, brands her skin. Franky's thumb presses down on the artery, her other fingers curling against the nape of Erica's neck - for a moment Erica has the delicious, thrilling feeling that she might not be able to take in breath. She can, but it's wheezing, forceful. 

"Look at me," Franky says, her voice rough. Her voice says it all - _I won't ask again_. 

Erica's head feels so heavy, and Franky's fingers are still inside her, pumping frenetically, like nothing Erica has ever felt, really, even that one time in college she let her roommate fuck her and pretended it was just experimentation, just 'that one time between friends', something to titillate her boyfriends in bed, later. This is not experimentation. _Look at me_. It's the same tone of voice that she had in that dream, too - _tell me what you want me to do_ -, low and husky and hoarse. Franky seems to know, though, what Erica wants, and she gives it teasingly, in parcels, with the palm of her hand, her thumb, her peaked nipples pressed against Erica's through the cloth of both their shirts. 

Erica raises her head. Franky's eyes flash, acknowledging her - _here you are_ \- with predatory satisfaction. Her fingers speed up, as though to congratulate her on being good. Erica is about to close her eyes, but Franky's thumb slides from her throat to her chin, holding it up, locking their gazes together.

The heat builds up in Erica's stomach. Her temples are buzzing; Erica thinks about the blood that must still be there, dried, in her hair. Wetness is coating her thighs - and probably Franky's hand, too -, and she moans again, though not a name, not Franky's name. More like an intelligible garble of noise, but Franky doesn't seem to mind, if the way she smiles when Erica comes is any indication.

She flatters Erica's bottom lip with her thumb. Her eyes haven't let up. For the first time, Erica realizes, with a guilty jolt, that Franky's probably just as wet and desperate as she is - was. Franky doesn't seem to care, though, or if she does, she hides it well. Her thumb swipes over Erica's lip. "Good girl," she whispers cockily. 

Her knees feel like they're going to buckle, but Erica still has enough strength to roll her eyes and slap Franky's hand away. Franky holds both hands up, falsely innocent; the sudden emptiness between Erica's leg makes her stumble, just a little, but enough for Franky's face to shift back into its earlier expression. She licks her lips.

The motion attracts Erica's eyes; they flit to Franky's mouth, briefly, then back up. The blood is still there. It shouldn't make Franky more attractive, but it does, and besides, this is wrong enough that a little more doesn't really matter. Franky's hands are still up, and she seems to realize something suddenly. She brings her wet fingers to her mouth. Erica watches, couldn't tear her eyes away if she tried. Her cunt throbs, almost over-stimulation, and it feels good. Erica bites her lip not to make a sound.

Franky licks her fingers. Her grin is sudden, bright. 

"You can do me next time," she drawls. 

Erica is about to say something - what? - when there's a knock at the door. She looks up, startled, suddenly taking in how she must look like: her hair mussed, her mouth red, clothes askew. Franky rests her back against the door again, looking, of course, perfectly unruffled. 

"Saved by the bell," she mouths. 

The knocks get stronger, impossible to ignore. Vera's voice, "Is there someone in there?" At least she doesn't know. Erica rights her clothes, fixes her hair best as she can. She glances at Franky, her dark eyes, the tattoos she can imagine crawling under her T-shirt. She breathes in. _Saved by the bell_.

"Yes," she says, and she opens the door.


End file.
